One Good Reason ~~summer~~wine~
by reenka
Summary: meet the Silver Drake, pirate of the high seas, owner of the Silver Sword of Mayhem. Draco dreams of glory on the high seas, Harry his prisoner, the world his oyster. But really, is the gag really necessary...? Silliness, pathetic!Draco, smug!Harry


disclaimer: jkr, aka miss rowling, aka the Goddess owns these boys. i own their swords, though. ahem. well, draco's silver sword of mayhem, anyway. *snerks*  
warning: sappy!draco teasing. um. slash. snogs. dreams. angst. pathetic!draco, and other things  
a/n: um. there's more. sort of in a mess right now, past, future, present. snippets and cookies about, at http://www.core.binghamton.edu/~lorien/story/fanfic.html but it's probably better to read it chronologically. this doesn't have spoilers, really, though. much. i just want some loooove. er. i mean, feedback :) yah. feedback.  
  
  
~~summer~~wine~  
  
  
~June 11th, dusk, Malfoy manor...  
  
Draco sat in his room, staring at his new sword, dully. He'd run his finger along its edge, testing it, finding the sight of the thin line of red sneaking across his finger appealing. He put the finger in his mouth, closing his eyes at the familiar taste. Not much of interest these days, but the taste of his own blood never failed to provide that certain frisson of pleasure. He laid back on the bed, his sword beside him, still. He carefully thought of nothing in particular. He was getting pleasantly drowsy, as he tended to when he lost a little blood.   
  
"Accio vinum," he murmured absently.  
  
The bottle hidden in the darkness under his bed was now nestled in his curved palm. He uncorked it, and raised it to his mouth, allowing a little of the dark red liquid to run down the corner of his lips to his chin. The wine was magically chilled, and he shivered as the drop snaked its way down his neck, disappearing under his shirt. When he lost a bit of blood, alcohol gave him even more of a buzz, he'd found. He was almost entertained by the sensation. His fingers drifted over his chest, feathered downwards, settling finally along his upper thigh. He didn't touch himself in ways any more heavy, not since... not if he was fully awake. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He wouldn't be able to stop thinking of all the things he wasn't thinking of, when he was conscious. His dreams, he couldn't control, so he liked to get somewhat smashed beforehand, and sometimes it worked, and he slept cloaked in only darkness.  
  
The air became thick and heated around him, to his intoxicated senses. His skin acquired a certain uncharacteristic flush, and he started to breathe more and more deeply, unlabored but not quite relaxed yet. His tongue flickered along his upper lip, lifting a bead of sweat. He would be grateful for sleep when it came. He was starting to hear phantom musical instruments-- guitar, he thought, with some violins perhaps. This was a good sign. He wasn't going to be conscious for much longer. He gave a sigh of relief. His fingers were starting to get itchy. Too much longer and he'd have... he'd have... lost control....  
  
In his dream, Draco was laughing. The sea air was invigorating, and he was in control. He stood on a deck of a large sailing ship, keeping balance easily as it danced fitfully upon the water. He was, for some strange reason, wearing leather pants and a white, thin shirt with a roguishly deep cut in the front, but no matter, he was in a dreadfully good mood. In fact, he felt like he was always in a good mood. Things were going so well, he practically wanted to pinch himself, but he didn't. Besides being in complete control of himself, his ship, and his destiny, he was also very confident of himself. Draco threw back his head and inhaled deeply. As he walked towards his cabin, he realized he swaggered, and his knee-high boots made a pleasant clicking sound on the polished wood beneath them. He grinned. His satisfaction was reaching new heights, it seemed. He fingered the long, silver sword strapped to his hip. It was silver, because he never actually needed to use it. He was the Silver Drake. The sword was part of the package, of course, but his actual skills lay elsewhere. He was pretty good with a wand, if he did say so himself. Better than good. Better than Potter-good. Just all around better. His grin widened, if possible. Life was good.  
  
But all that paled to what he found waiting for him in his captain's quarters. There, on his bed, gagged and tied at wrists and ankles, was their high-and-mighty prisoner. Draco was now practically glowing with pleasure, but he kept it in check, so as to retain his image of self-possession and suave roguishness, as was befitting of a pirate. Which is exactly what he was. What he'd always wanted to be, in fact. Draco Malfoy, pirate on the high seas. It had a ring to it. He had further ambitions of course-- ambitions well-served by their capture of the rich and famous wizard currently at his mercy. The imp Nocketuk, his cabinboy, had outdone himself in his captain's service. Potter was stripped down to his underpants, his wand carefully placed at his feet, where he could feel it but not get to it, and he was obviously drugged, because his eyes were glistening in a strange way that could only be described as lascivious. Draco licked his lips. This wasn't the purpose of having Potter indisposed as he was, but it was certainly a perk. Oh yes, and he liked every single perk that came with being the Silver Drake, the Green Cobra, the one, the only, the dashing, pirate Malfoy.  
  
Draco put a finger to his lips, as if pondering what he wanted to do. Unhurriedly, he moved to the foot of the bed, staring into the wizard's eyes all the while. They were as wild and green and dark with promise as the high seas. Draco knew he had to be careful, but he wasn't worried. He was confident. He sat on the bed, lightly trailing a finger down the wizard's chest, grinning unabashedly when it provoked an involuntary shiver.  
  
"So," he drawled. "What shall I do with you, I wonder...."  
  
The prisoner didn't seem to take this as a sinister pronouncement, but rather as amusing, a joke, even. His eyes were twinkling. Draco didn't think of control, as he removed the cloth from the wizard's mouth. He thought of lips, seeing them... feeling them... all the things there are to do, with lips. The wizard promptly showed a gleaming row of even white teeth. Draco started to sweat somewhere at the back of his neck. But he wasn't worried-- he had plans, after all. Detailed plans. Foolproof plans, even. He allowed himself a chuckle.  
  
"Kiss me," the prisoner said, rather impudently. Draco's eyes widened a fraction, and he could feel the sweat beading under his knees, now. Not a good sign.  
  
"Ha," Draco said, momentarily stumpted as to the proper cutting response, something to do with how that'd be the last thing he wanted, and how prisoners didn't get to make demands, and how he didn't like the impudent little wizard anyway. "You wish, Potter."  
  
"No, actually, -you- wish, Malfoy," the wizard said, with a casual air. "In fact, you're just dying to feel my lips on yours, lightly biting perhaps, or even just scraping my teeth along your bottom lip, slowly, gently sucking it into my mouth, perhaps. You know it. I know it. There's really no use pretending."  
  
Draco restrained the urge to clap a hand over Potter's mouth. But he didn't-- he was still in control, of course. Still, he could see why the gag had been originally placed. There was something extremely annoying about their prisoner, something hard to put a finger on, since he was rather polite-- forthcoming even, one might say. Something centering in that twinkle in his eye, a mischievous twinkle it was. It made one want to kiss him. Draco was leaning halfway towards that teasing mouth when he realized what he was doing, and jumped up as if burned. This wasn't going quite as planned. He needed to re-plan. Strategy wasn't inflexible but in some things, he had to stand firm. No kissing. He didn't know why, but he knew, somehow, kissing would lead to utter damnation. There was nothing worse than a kiss, when it came to this particular wizard, he was quite certain, though he had no clue as to why he was. He just knew. He was confident. Pirates didn't kiss, anyway.  
  
"Pirates don't -do- kissing," Draco said, a condescending leer in his voice. And there was no comeback to -that-, Draco thought, quite smugly.  
  
"I guess it sucks, not really being a pirate, then. Being a pretend pirate, so to speak. At least -I'm- a real wizard. I'm the Boy Who Lived. -You're- just the Pirate Who Lied. The kissing is optional."  
  
That was it. The gag was going back on, Draco thought, somewhat horrified with himself with his appalling lapse in judgement. What -was- he thinking? Well, one thing was certain, and that was that it had nothing to do with kissing. As Draco reached around his head to tie the knot, Harry jerked his arms up roughly, breaking the bonds, and wrapping his arms around Draco, using his element of surprise to throw him onto the bed and, in one smooth movement, roll on top. This time, the mirth was written all over his face, and was unmistakable.   
  
"Got you, Silver Drake," Harry said, and giggled. "You are now my prisoner, to do with as I wish," he added, shaking with laughter now.  
  
"We'll see about -that-, Potter," Draco said, clinging to his dignity, attempting to throw the other boy off him, but for some reason completely unable to. His muscles refused to cooperate. Instead they were hell-bent on melting in a disgusting puddle of goo, right there on his perfectly fresh sheets. His traitorous hips were the first to go, seeing as Harry was sitting on them. His whole body was trying to arch and twist and get as much of itself to touch as much of Harry's as humanly possible. Draco was quite sickened with himself, but he couldn't very well claim he wasn't enjoying it. He turned his cheek to the pillow in protest, so as to avoid Harry's eyes, at least.  
  
And then, without further ado, Harry was leaning forward, his lips apparently on a mission, and not to be deterred, advancing slowly, way too slowly. It seemed to take a minute for a single inch. The closer he got, the more Draco was tempted to turn his head. He was using all he control at this point. Every single ounce. It was quite a lot. It wasn't enough. Harry was almost at his destination, and with a pained moan, Draco's head snapped to the left, and his lips met Harry's in a desperate rush. Harry's lips were soft, awfully, frighteningly soft-- and perfect-- they tasted of rain and strawberries and something else, hard to define, but tangy and sweet at the same time. Draco was suddenly thirsty, so thirsty, it was like he hadn't had a drop in as long as he could remember. Not a drop. And now, a waterfall, a river, a cascade of liquid pleasure bathing his own lips. Dimly, he realized Harry's weight on top of him was no longer restraining but rather inflaming, putting pressure in all the right places, maddening, delicious pressure. Harry was flowing into his every cell, every pore of Draco's skin was absorbing him, every inch of his tongue was tasting him. It wasn't enough.  
  
Draco needed to see him, to see him there, right above him. His eyes fluttered open, and he froze in shock. Those eyes... no longer laughing. They were just looking-- just seeing-- they were seeing him. Seeing right through him. In a moment, Draco remembered. Remembered he was afraid. Remembered he was denied. Remembered it was himself who denied him. There was a raw, ripped feeling in his stomach, like suddenly a wound had torn open, without warning. He woke up, sober and quite alone. He had hoped he would spare himself this, this night, every night. But he never spared himself. And there was no use hoping. He turned on his side, facing the wall, unable to control his shaking, unable to control a thing about himself at that moment, his lips letting out a vehement string of curses. His back was to the window, and his eyes open, when the sun finally rose.  
~~ 


End file.
